


Repair

by herrcolonel (presidentwarden)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Character Death Fix, Emotions, F/F, Gen, Injury Recovery, Sleep Deprivation, Speculation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-10 11:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3288860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presidentwarden/pseuds/herrcolonel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A continuation of Mockingjay's events after its controversial ending, but with a bit of alteration for Coin's sake, and Johanna's. It fills in some missing space and gives both of them some small semblance of a happier ending. </p>
<p>Granted, this isn't the outcome that either one planned on.</p>
<p>- - -</p>
<p>Self-sufficiency is, as always vital to her. There’s a mirror at the other end of the room; Coin squints at it, judging her own reflection, and frowns. She looks slightly more weary than usual, ageless features still showing signs of stress. Piece by piece, she separates her hair into strands and combs it out until it’s smooth and silky again, looking more like her old self. At the end, the improvement is enough to make the corner of her mouth twitch upwards in a wry smile, laying the hairbrush back on the mattress. “Thank you.”</p>
<p>“Alma, I’d commit murder for you. Don’t thank me for a hairbrush.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fic includes several new characters from the Mockingjay mobile game Panem Rising, which I've handily compiled in a spreadsheet: http://tinyurl.com/laz84ts

Johanna has neither bathed nor slept. It isn’t a pretty combination, but a combination of energy drinks, catnaps, and sponge baths has kept her well and functional enough to stay in the hospital room, dutifully keeping her post at the bedside of the president.

Former president, she should say. One president is dead already, choked to death on his own blood in a fit of manic laughter during his own execution. The other, who was supposed to ascend to the _real_ presidency -- not just district leadership -- has been shot through the chest, knocked off a balcony, and landed in a bed of Snow’s roses in front of the presidential mansion, lying there like a fallen angel in a pool of her own blood.

Johanna needed three guards and a shot of tranquilizer to restrain her.

It’s probably for the best that Caldwell is there. A reformed Peacekeeper lieutenant, he joined 13’s cause early on after a raid on District 8, a youngish pleasant-faced man with a shock of reddish blond hair. Nobody still fully trusts any of the ex-Peacekeepers, least of all Johanna, but she heard secondhand, after the tranquilizer knocked her out, that he was one of the ones who was able to take Coin’s body to safety, rescuing the assassinated president from the clamoring crowd. So, grudgingly, she supposes she owes him for that.

Johanna realizes her reaction to Coin’s fall is a reflection of her revised priorities. Rather than go to Katniss’s aid in a difficult time, she had found herself torn between two impulses: rush to Coin’s side and hold her in her final moments, or embed an axe straight through Katniss’s skull. She had opted for the first, and cradled the woman in her lap like a reenactment of the famous Pieta statue, shrieking invective at those responsible -- Katniss, Snow, _everyone._ That was when somebody had crept up behind her with a syringe and jabbed her, and she had gone down for the count.

Over the past few days, while the doctors work on Coin in secret, Johanna’s turned on the television a couple times, reluctantly checking on what’s being said about her. Caesar Flickerman, once a puppet of the Capitol, now a puppet of the new administration, has had many questions about Johanna’s “erratic behavior.” Katniss is to be put on trial. Paylor has been elected president. Yet what they are all focusing on most is Johanna and her tragic spectacle of grief.

It’s just good that there’s no doubt in anybody’s minds that Coin is dead. Plutarch would like to keep it that way.

He’s been keeping watch with Johanna in shifts, one of few trusted with the knowledge that the ill-fated arrow didn’t pierce Coin’s lungs or heart. Straight through the ribs, in an excruciating wound that some doctors deemed impossible to repair, but a culture as violent as Panem’s naturally requires the best of medical care to compensate for its own self-destructive tendencies. So the doctors have worked and worked, making her survival possible. They won’t dare to say it’s guaranteed, but _possible._ And if nothing else, Johanna may have the chance to say goodbye.

That’s what’s burned her most badly about the way Katniss handled her own vendetta killing against Coin. There was no warning, no hint, no way for anyone to know. Katniss granted Snow an unjust triumph while ripping victory from the hands of a deserving champion, at least in Johanna’s eyes. Slight bias comes into play here as she thinks it over, but it’s true -- Coin accomplished what others could not, could never have, by unseating the dictatorship. The whole scenario turned foul with just one shot, and then instead of rejoicing in the death of a corrupt president, the audience celebrated the fall of a competent one.

Johanna thinks it over; face in her hands, dark circles under her eyes and tangled hair falling in an untidy pixie cut. Plutarch has disappeared several minutes ago, venturing downstairs to the hospital cafeteria to fetch something for himself and get a meal for Johanna, who’s barely left the room. Caldwell is outside somewhere, keeping guard. Marigold the tailor, a recruit from District Eight with a keen sense of humor for her young years, is in the group as well, at Johanna’s request. The girl reminds her of a long-lost little cousin, one of the refugees who came straggling in to District 13 in a pack but distinguished herself quickly with her skills. She’s accompanied Johanna frequently on reconnaissance missions, which is the only reason she’s even allowed anywhere near this whole catastrophic situation. She’s probably hunting around the hospital for needles and thread again, to embroider something. At least it’s less violent than Johanna’s habit of carving things.

Johanna shifts in her chair besides the hospital bed, feeling it creak underneath her weight. She’s not heavy, but is built of lean solid muscle from years of axe-wielding, a fact that Flickerman and the other tribute judges hadn’t failed to point out when she showed up for her interviews and training sessions. The Games feel like an eternity ago to her. It’s probably better that way.

Finally, holding her breath, she lets herself glance over at Coin. Amid the sterile bleached white of hospital sheets and the network of tubing and wires all hooked up to her slim body, Coin looks smaller than ever, a tiny fragile shadow of herself. Silver hair framing her face in messy strands, she rests with eyes shut, breathing in and out slowly. Johanna can’t tell if she’s asleep or not, but decides it’s better not to disturb.

But to sit here and just watch her sleep feels _wrong_. It’s a violation of Coin’s image of hardy self-sufficiency that she’s worked so hard to establish, only to have it all fall to pieces on the Capitol’s front steps. Soon, Johanna reaches out gently and takes hold of one of Coin’s hands, the president’s slender bony fingers interlacing loosely with Johanna’s stronger ones as she awakens. Her hands are colder than ever, a sign of poor circulation and the trauma she’s endured. Johanna squeezes loosely, and feels a response, a tiny motion of acknowledgement in return.

This is one of the first times Johanna’s felt any joy lately. Days ago she woke up strapped to a hospital bed, lest she start lashing out at the people who were only trying to help her. It’s a period of blacked-out memory loss between her rush to save Coin and her return to consciousness in a hospital room, but she’s heard tales of what happened, seen grainy footage from some panicked citizen who whipped out their communicator and hit record the instant the arrow left Katniss’s bow. It’s not flattering to anybody, least of all Johanna, who has a tendency to turn feral in times of panic.

But now she sits silently with breath held, grasping Coin’s hand and watching the slight rise and fall of her chest -- such a wonderful sight, considering that days ago, Johanna was certain she’d lost the last person she truly loved. At this instant, there’s no similarity between the savage former Tribute whose ferocity Flickerman can’t stop marveling about, and the worn-down but steadfast girl who’s sitting in a folding chair next to a hospital bed, clutching her beloved’s hand, just waiting for her to open her eyes.

And so Coin does in time, beautiful gray eyes a bit bloodshot and her face ashen from the trauma of the injury, but she’s still her radiant self under the mask of pain that an IV drip of morphling extract has helped to dull. Johanna hates to know that the stuff is necessary, having struggled in the past with it herself, but she’d rather do anything than let Coin suffer, so she doesn’t comment. Coin blinks a little bit and pushes herself up in the hospital bed, inhaling shakily and getting used to the small oxygen tube that’s resting across her face. With one hand, she lifts it off, awareness of her diminished dignity overcoming her desire for the comfort of modern medicine. “Johanna.”

“Alma. Hey, you. Thank fucking _god.”_ Johanna blinks, rubs her eyes, and swallows hard. She won’t admit it, but she’s a little choked up. Although her first instinct is to tell Coin to put the oxygen tube back on, she realizes that the president is slowly becoming her usual self again, and that’s satisfying enough that Johanna’s willing to keep her mouth shut. Besides, Plutarch will be back soon enough, and he’ll make sure Coin is being properly cared for. That’s his job, at least in part. Paylor has decided to appoint him Secretary of Communications, due to his outstanding job with District 13’s propos, so Plutarch will be leaving their esteemed company soon enough, but not until Coin recovers. That may take months, and it’s unpaid leave. However, when Plutarch chooses his true loyalties, he doesn’t falter.

And Johanna thinks she hears him knocking at the door now, but realizes it’s just a trick of the mind and the ear, or else she’s been awake long enough that she’s starting to hallucinate. So she focuses her attention on Coin again, who’s patiently waiting to listen, pale and breathing shallowly but looking far more alert than yesterday. The Capitol’s medicine is highly advanced, and a recovery process that should take weeks has been shortened to a matter of days. Plutarch is glad for this, Marigold is outright astonished that such things are possible, and Johanna is deeply resentful that the technology’s been withheld from the rest of the Districts. But for now, she’ll let herself just be grateful that it exists at all.

She repeats Coin’s name like a prayer, holding her hand tighter. Johanna’s not too alert herself, the coffee and energy drinks starting to wear off in a devastating crash, and Coin notices, squeezing her hand with that same faint effort as before. “Darling, are you alright? Go eat. I hate to think of you starving yourself for my sake.”

“I already ate.” Johanna yawns, running her free hand through her hair to tousle it into some semblance of proper order. Admittedly, cafeteria pizza delivered by Caldwell and company isn’t a substitute for a real lunch, but it’s been enough to get her by. “Alma, babe, you almost _died_ and you’re asking _me_ if I’m alright? Better get a handle on your priorities.” She lets a little laugh erupt out of her at the absurdity of it. Johanna is mostly fine, after all. She was soaked with blood after holding Coin after the fall, and had to be showered off to get clean, which wasn’t pleasant. And seeing her lover apparently die before her eyes was downright traumatic. But Coin is alive and Coin is here and Johanna still has her, in a miracle that rivals Beetee’s stunt with the lightning bolt at the Quarter Quell, and what Johanna’s been through lately can’t even begin to rival the difficulties of District 13’s most long-suffering leader.

Coin returns the laugh with a gentle smile, eyelashes fluttering a little, and Johanna feels a knot at the pit of her stomach. She sits still, just ravenously taking in the sight of the president, who’s luminously gorgeous even in a drab hospital gown that’s somehow even more colorless than Coin’s trim gray District 13 uniforms. Johanna’s lost track of which IV drip is supposed to be doing what, but she’s careful not to disturb the mess of tubing and wires, even as she leans over the bed and gives her a soft kiss on the mouth, the delicate pallor of Coin’s fair skin balanced out by lovely pink lips. “Don’t even say anything. The doc said not to strain your lungs.”

“I’m certain I can manage a sentence or two.” Defiantly, Coin pushes herself up on the bed, still fighting the image of weakness she knows she can’t help but present. Chest swathed in bandages underneath the oversized hospital gown, every movement causes pain, so she relaxes against the nest of pillows soon enough, sitting more upright now. Her right arm’s encased in a cast, the result of a badly broken arm from the fall, which leaves only one hand free to use. Trying to tame her hair with her fingers doesn’t do much; it’s still naturally straight, but untidy and tangled. She can’t help but groan. “It’s difficult not to feel like I’ve completely lost my dignity. That’s ridiculous, isn’t it? It’s just my hair.” She admonishes herself. “I should be worried about more serious things.”

“Like what? You’re surviving some life-altering shit. Do what you need to do.” Johanna has prepared for this situation. From the small backpack Marigold fetched for her from the gift shop, she withdraws a hairbrush and solemnly offers it. “Want me to do it?”

“Not in a million years.” Self-sufficiency is, as always vital to her. There’s a mirror at the other end of the room; Coin squints at it, judging her own reflection, and frowns. She looks slightly more weary than usual, ageless features still showing signs of stress. Piece by piece, she separates her hair into strands and combs it out until it’s smooth and silky again, looking more like her old self. At the end, the improvement is enough to make the corner of her mouth twitch upwards in a wry smile, laying the hairbrush back on the mattress. “Thank you.”

“Alma, I’d commit murder for you. Don’t thank me for a hairbrush.” Johanna takes the brush back and shoves it back into the backpack, resting her chin in her hands and slouching over. She feels herself falling towards the brink of sleep, but catches herself every time, yawning and blinking to stay awake and keep her attention focused on the president. “They say I almost did.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me.” Coin yawns too, but it’s a small polite yawn with her hand over her mouth, unlike Johanna who practically unhinges her jaw each time. As always, Coin is a prime example of proper manners. “Did you record any of Flickerman’s broadcasts? He’s bound to have discussed it, knowing what a shameless sensationalist he is.”

Johanna narrows her eyes at Coin. “Nope, but you’re _exactly_ right. He’s been on it nonstop. You sure you really were out cold the past few days?”

“Absolutely certain. I just know his methods, and his subject matter.” Back in 13, Coin had done extensive research into any and all prominent Capitol personalities. Flickerman was always interesting -- driven by a sense of genuine sympathy with the Games’ personalities rather than unfiltered bloodlust, he nevertheless always had caved to Snow’s will with alarming obedience. But since the Capitol is newly deposed, it’s entirely possible that he’s changed his tune. “So what has he said?”

“Well...” With Snow dead, the tone of his broadcasts has shifted a little. He’s exhibited obvious sympathy for both Johanna, grieving wild child that she is in that controversial bit of footage, and Coin, struck down too soon. “Honestly, I think he felt bad for both of us. Assuming he still knows how to feel bad, and that isn’t just all an act. I can’t tell. Met him in person, and I _still_ have no idea.” Johanna shrugs, loose tank top shifting a little around her torso. “But he sure seemed like he did. Katniss’s team started doing damage control right away, though. Haymitch, Peeta, and Effie mostly. They’re saying some stuff.” Johanna swallows hard. “So I guess you killed Katniss’s sister.”

Coin closes her eyes. “The bombings.”

“Yeah. That was it.” Johanna sits very still. “That, and Katniss thinks... I know she's got a whole list. Yeah, okay, she thinks you expected her to die on the Snow mission--”

“No.”

“--and that you sent Peeta with the 451 team so he’d kill her when he went nuts.”

_“No.”_ Coin crumples up the edge of the fabric bedsheet in one small fist. “What else?”

“There’s some other stuff, I don’t know. Nothing huge, other than her moral objection to the Capitol games--”

“Which she could easily have voted against! I was intending to appease the Districts and the Capitol with the least amount of bloodshed!”

“Deep breaths. Settle down.” Johanna reaches out to take hold of her wrist. Coin is starting to look very pale, alarmingly so, given her condition. “I’m just gonna cut to the chase. I talked with Plutarch. The public’s supporting Katniss. She’s going for an insanity plea, but her lawyers are saying she was right to think you were threatening her life, and everyone’s buying it. So you, uh...” She rubs her face with her hands again, trying to figure out the phrasing. “Plutarch thinks if you start making a move for the presidency again, somebody’s gonna try to finish the job Katniss started.”

“Oh.” Coin hesitates, then gives an understanding little nod. Disappointing, but given the circumstances, she comprehends fully. Whatever is necessary. “I’ll gladly accept a lesser office. What matters most is the rebellion’s success.” She pauses and then draws in a breath. “Look at me. Oh, Johanna, I’m still saying the talking-point phrases in conversations. I’ve got nothing left other than the cause, and now I’m some sort of martyr. Not even a proper martyr, just the failed sort, who didn’t intend to be one.”

“You’re not making this easy on me here, babe. Look, they all have to think you’re still dead.” Johanna blurts this out before she’s intended to, witnessing the slowly growing look of horror on Coin’s face and getting an awful sinking feeling within her own heart. “You and me, we’re both gonna have to work deep undercover in the Capitol, or go back to District 13 and set up shop there again. Or both. Commute, or something. I don’t know. But those are the options.” Johanna straightens her back, sitting up in the chair. “Plutarch told me the sooner I told you, the longer you had for it to sink in. Paylor’s the president now, that lady from District 8. She’ll do a good job. Yeah, we all wish it was you, but Katniss kind of ruined the odds for that. If you tried to get back into public life, you’d probably have to be heavily guarded. Like, all the time. And I’d rather not have to axe anybody to death again for the rest of my life.”

Coin’s eyes are closed again, back to looking frail and wounded as she lays still in the bed. “All that work for naught.” Then her sensible instincts kick in and she looks over at Johanna. _Be reasonable, Alma. It’s not all about you all the time._ “Just give me time to deal with this. I’ll manage. I do realize I’d really rather be alive and out of office than elected but dead.”

“Yeah, you and me both.” Johanna hunches forward, scooting closer to Coin’s bed and moving her chair nearer. “I’m feeling it too. Trust me, I wanted to be able to stake my claim on Panem’s most gorgeous president.” This brings a tiny smile to Coin’s face, so she keeps going. “And I guess you’re still that, just with the District and not the whole country. Hey, listen to me. I’m not going anywhere, I’m staying right here, and I’ll hurt any son of a bitch who gets in your way.” She clears her throat. “By the way, I think Katniss’s lawyers put a restraining order on me, so I won’t be going to the Tribute reunions, either.”

“I’m sure you’ll be sorely missed.” A chart of Hospital Etiquette rules pinned to the wall catches Coin’s eye, and she stifles another smile at the contrast between that and Johanna’s abrasive, brash commentary. “Very well. District 13 will need to be rebuilt aboveground. That task will occupy several years at the very least. Do you think that’ll be enough responsibility to handle between us?”

“Lady, you know I love you, but if you think I’m going to be dealing with management crap, think again.”

“Yes, that’s _my_ job. You can assist me. Anywhere that strong, unfiltered opinions would be valued.” Which, all things considered, is pretty much everywhere. Coin pauses a little, then gives a soft, faded smile. “And I love you, too. We’ll find a way.”

The door creaks open to admit Plutarch, looking older and sadder than usual. His trip to the hospital cafeteria has clearly been fruitful, yielding a bag full of supplies that he crosses the room to drop in Johanna’s lap. She clutches it gratefully, peering inside, and yanks an item out, popping the tab on a can of espresso drink and swigging half the beverage in one gulp while Coin gives her a look. “Perhaps you should just sleep.”

“Knowing her, I don’t think that’s going to happen.” Plutarch is playing mediator again, even in a situation where it’s really not needed, but over the past week he’s come into his prime as the intermediary between angry Capitol residents and furious District revolutionaries, trying to make them understand each other’s sharp and biased points of view. The last few days have been nonstop stress, and it’s now difficult to acclimate to a situation where everyone is already at ease. He looks exhausted, but not as much as Johanna, who’s clutching the can with both hands, knees pulled up to her chest to fold herself into the small space of the flimsy chair. “I got you both some things.” It’s all sorted in the bag according to their dietary preferences: junk food for Johanna, and some healthier things for Coin, who insists on it. Everybody else in their ragtag little party just takes meals at the cafeteria itself, but one of the remaining two is confined to a hospital bed indefinitely, and the other can’t be persuaded to leave the room. So Plutarch does what he can.

While Johanna shoves a fistful of chips into her mouth, rushing to devour the entire bag -- it’s true, Capitol food really _does_ taste better, loaded up with flavor enhancers -- Coin responds to Plutarch, reluctantly replacing the oxygen tube across her face before he can speak up and remind her. “Thank you, Mr. Heavensbee. I don’t suppose you found a replacement for this?” She tugs gently at the flimsy fabric of her hospital gown, indicating the disappointing garment. By far, the part that has wounded Coin’s dignity the most is the ruination of her uniform. It has become a symbol of her authority, with its District 13 logo carefully emblazoned into the soft satiny cloth of her sleeve with hand-stitched silver thread. That was one last touch, to remind the Capitol residents exactly who Panem’s saviors were when the D13 crew arrived. But after the incident, the jumpsuit was just a heap of mangled fabric shreds, soaked through with Coin’s blood, thorns from Snow’s roses embedded in its cloth. There’d been very little left to save, so it’d been disposed of several days ago. Now Coin is left without even the simplest insignia of her own district, a near-anonymous patient in a maze of hospital rooms and wards.

It is somehow humiliating.

Plutarch shakes his head, a slight sign of apology. “I couldn’t find anything. They don’t even want you to be moving around, let alone getting out of bed to change clothes. When you’re patched up, I’ll get a new uniform for you. Although, now that all of Panem knows what you look like, we may all need to travel incognito on the way back to 13.” Plutarch has never cared for politics, so there is something relieving about the knowledge that he’ll be staying back in his favorite district for months to come. But still, he too feels the loss of Coin’s new power very keenly. It’s impossible not to see it on her face, the creased brow and pursed lips as he speaks. She obviously hates being reminded of her new status, and he feels a pang of guilt for bringing it up so soon. “I’m sorry, Alma. I did what I could.”

“Don’t call me that, please.” Coin’s eyebrows arch in her quick address to him, fixing him in a stern stare. First names are forbidden to all but her closest companions, a level that even Plutarch has not quite reached. “And don’t be sorry. None of us have any way of repairing this for now. I detest these types of situations, but it’s better to recognize them as what they are.” Coin sets the issue aside for now. Later, they’ll deal with issues of disguises and safe travels and public relations. For now, she needs food. She leans over and reaches into the bag on Johanna’s lap, extracting an apple, and pats her thigh to catch her attention. “Give me your knife.”

“Can’t.” Johanna mumbles through a mouthful of chips and espresso drink, missing the familiar weight in her pocket. “Hospital security took it.”

“What about your other knife?”

“Aw, fine.” As always, Coin’s more attentive to detail than Johanna expects. She obediently retrieves it from inside her shirt, a little Swiss Army knife that has escaped the metal detectors, and drops it into Coin’s open palm. As soon as the president has it, she unfolds it one-handed and sinks the blade into the apple, cutting a slice for herself. Loosely grasping the fruit with the hand that’s in a cast, and operating the knife with her left hand, somehow she manages to cut it into manageable pieces. Johanna watches this in mild astonishment. Either Coin’s ambidextrous, or a quick learner. Probably both.

She chews delicately and thoughtfully, only pausing when Johanna directs another question at her. “You feeling alright?”

“As right as I can possibly feel for now.” It’s phrased to contain both obvious truths and subtle ones, in typical Coin style. Plutarch has found a better chair elsewhere, and is now dragging it into the room, heaving his weary frame into it as soon as the door is shut again. Nonetheless, Coin ignores him, lobbying the question back at Johanna. “And you?”

“If you’re fine, I’m fine.” She crumples the bag of chips in one hand and crushes the coffee can in another, merciless in the strength of her grip. An overhand toss lands both items in the trash bin near the door. Her aim never falters, even in the throes of sleep deprivation, which is hitting her harder and harder like a vise to the chest and a pressure headache. The espresso isn’t helping one bit. “That’s all that matters.”

“No. Take care of yourself.” Coin’s tone leaves no room for debate, argument, or contradiction. It’s the same tone she uses in crises, but instead of political havoc or an impending attack, the problem involves a willfully suffering girlfriend. She tucks a strand of gray hair behind her ear, framing her face with unsurprising loveliness, and gestures Johanna towards the door. “Find somewhere to rest. Plutarch and I need to discuss matters of state, so it’d be a good time for you to sleep.” In the corner, Plutarch nods in agreement. Coin ignores his contribution yet again, focused on Johanna. For once, it’s a moment of perceived vulnerability. “Please. For my sake. I need you to be well.”

“Yeah. I get it. I’m gonna pass out right here if I don’t find somewhere else.” Johanna stands up numbly, almost zombie-like, letting the bag of food supplies drop to the floor. “I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

Plutarch stands too, and rests a hand on her arm sympathetically, guiding her towards the door. “There’s an empty room across the hall. Just sleep there, and knock on the door when you come back. We’ll be here.”

Johanna nods, grumbling to herself. “You better be.” But before she can go, she leans across the hospital bed again and steals a kiss from Coin, right in front of Plutarch and whoever else might happen to be observing through hospital security cameras. Johanna doesn’t care anymore. The worst imaginable situation has already happened. She’s prepared for anything else life has to offer, especially the consequences of this, whatever they might be.

But Plutarch is unfazed beyond belief, and Coin has a slight bashful smile, and before either one can speak, Johanna breezes out and slams the door shut behind her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only way through is forward. While Johanna finally gets some much-needed sleep, Plutarch and Coin have to make plans - and the situation in Panem is a difficult one, now, with all that's happened.
> 
> \- - -
> 
> “It’s the story they want to tell. The war broke Katniss, so she snapped, and now she shouldn’t be forced to suffer again, they’ll say. It’s a way to illustrate the power of these atrocities, and allow for an ending that doesn’t involve putting Panem’s favorite icon to death.” She rubs the bridge of her nose, fruitlessly trying to stave off a slight headache. “And if that’s what it takes to keep this nation from falling to pieces again, I can easily pretend to be dead, thank you very much. After all, I’ve kept an entire district secret for twenty years. I can do it again.”
> 
> And again Plutarch walks the border between reassuring supporter and sycophantic yes-man, falling back into old habits. “I’m not questioning your skills, Madam President.”
> 
> “You should be.”

Coin clears her throat, touches her fingertips to her mouth, and coughs lightly. “Shall we continue?”

Plutarch has a tablet and several file folders with him, documenting the last few days in great detail with saved files and computer printouts. He’s left these on the countertop across the room from Coin, but her sternly compelling gaze is enough to make him reach for his materials like a shield. “Yes, let’s. How much do you know?”

“More and less than I should.” And Coin explains what Johanna has told her, pieced together in fragments from her own observation and assumptions, as well as the doctor’s reports, which she remembers in vague foggy shadows through a haze of anesthetic. This is the first day she’s been awake and functional to such an extent, and it’s hard not to want to overwork herself, but she lets the full story unfold slowly through Plutarch’s narration as he fills in the gaps. District 13 soldiers and reformed Peacekeepers working together to barricade the area. The strongest among them pulling Johanna away from Coin, and the emergency workers removing the fallen body on a stretcher, because a body bag is somehow too final. Hours and hours waiting outside the operating room -- a hard time for Plutarch, to seemingly lose two former Presidents in the same hour. Although he doesn’t grieve for Snow, the fundamental gravity of the death that he helped cause still hits him hard. But through it all, Johanna has been there, if not to console him, than to simply tolerate him, for the sake of Coin and for all she still loves.

Then, Plutarch describes the aftermath: after the successful surgery, the four of them have been taking shifts watching over their fallen leader, or rather the three of them take turns, and one never gives up. The little girl has the most energy; Marigold Cantrell from District Eight, a junior seamstress young enough to have been reaped in the Games, who’s clearly grateful for every aspect of the rebellion. She wears a small Mockingjay patch sewn onto her sleeve, lines of perfect stitching that depict the famed symbol of the Capitol’s failures, and her brown hair hangs over her shoulders in dual braids, a charming reinterpretation of Katniss’s imagery. “An ideal poster child,” according to Plutarch, “but she arrived too late for us to use her in the propos. A real shame. But she’s good to have around. Keeps Johanna grounded.”

In contrast to the unique little tailor, Caldwell the ex-Peacekeeper is taciturn and calm, indistinguishable from any average modern citizen in a crowd but standing out in his ordinariness when placed among Capitol residents. Now he’s stationed at the end of this underground corridor; a sort of early warning system, should anyone with nosy or sinister intentions come venturing through. Again, Plutarch offers his opinion. “He was in it for the paycheck as a Peacekeeper, and still is, even if he’s working for us now. Make sure we compensate him well, and we’ll have no trouble.”

Of course, Plutarch himself is the last of the three he mentions, driven by duty and admiration for the remarkable President who got him this far. He declines to comment on that, beyond a simple statement of “I’ll be here as long as you need me,” intended to reassure Coin and verify his loyalty.

And then there’s Johanna.

Plutarch, with his keen knowledge of human behavior from years of firsthand scrutiny, gives Coin his unfiltered opinion. “She’s looking for something to cling to, and you’re it. She went _insane_ at the execution. Just wait until Flickerman shows the footage for the hundredth time. You’ll see what I mean.” He shrugs, holding his hands out. “If I were you, I’d be careful.”

Coin clearly doesn’t like this suggestion. Her expression hardens, cold as steel. For a frail patient in an arm cast and full-body bandages, she’s still just as formidable as when she’s taking her place atop the speaking platform in the District’s Collective, her personality filling  this small hospital room and that vast space with equal power. “Of all the people in my life who might harm me, I can accept the risks Johanna offers.”

“I know.” And Plutarch doesn’t even bother to sigh. Now and then he rues the day Johanna set foot inside District 13, but on the whole, the effects haven’t been all bad. Coin’s personality is always mercilessly strong, but something about Johanna tempers her cold forcefulness, softening it in a cloak of velvet kindness that makes the blow of discipline even more powerful when it lands. He has to admit, Coin would have whipped Panem into shape, but perhaps that isn’t what it needs now. Yet that's not the sort of thought to be voiced out loud. “I don’t mean that you should fear her personally. What a thought.” A thought Plutarch has had several times whenever Johanna shows up with an axe strapped to her belt. “Just that she might struggle with staying incognito, knowing her personality. We don’t want her to be a risk to your safety.”

“She and I can manage. The Capitol’s focus will be turned inward now as it recovers from its traumas. And if Flickerman starts delving into anything to do with District 13, you know how to handle him.”

Plutarch nods. A juicy tidbit of Capitol secrets -- easily obtained from Effie, who collects confessions from her fellow socialites like a human gossip magnet -- is more alluring to Flickerman than any new information about the whereabouts of a long-lost mining research colony. “I certainly do.”

“Good.” It’s comforting to Coin somehow to start strategizing, so she does, taking ideas and drawing them to their conclusions to implement a plan. “I was told about Boggs before the execution. I wish he’d lived. There’s no shame in admitting it. He was a good man.” She swallows hard, letting herself feel the creeping pangs of grief. “We’ll hold a funeral for him, and for the other fallen soldiers, on our return. He had family. A wife and twin sons. See to it that they receive a pension, and that he’s granted posthumous honors.”

Plutarch punches this information into his communicator pad, typing away on the tiny screen with a stylus. Unlike more tech-savvy members of his generation, he’s never bothered to master the miniscule keyboard that comes with the device. He’s a man of ideas, not gadgets. “It’ll be done.”

“What about Cressida and her team?”

“She lived. So did Pollux. Castor and Messalla are dead.”

“Let her take care of the funeral arrangements. They may be honored in the Capitol. Although I’m not sure Cressida would want that, I don’t see where else it could happen.” She contemplates for a minute. Cressida, with her burning resentment of the Capitol, might reject a ceremony entirely, but it’s likely she’ll still want to honor her fallen crew members. Coin supposes they’ll have to all wait and see. “Oh, and Flickerman’s going to adore Cressida now and beg her for an interview. I’m sure of it.”

Plutarch smiles a little. “He already has. Made a stunt out of it, calling up Panem’s most famous film director to ask for an interview on-air. She rejected him on live television.”

“Good girl.” Coin smirks, but the expression slowly fades. “What of the others? Hawthorne?”

“He’s moving to District 2. Paylor’s offered him a place in her administration.”

“Well, that’s good for him.” She can’t bring herself to be disappointed that Gale’s chosen to leave District 13. It was Gale that conceived of the dual-wave disguised bombings, and considering his bond with Katniss, the resulting death of the younger Everdeen has to be impacting him quite powerfully. “Let’s hope he can forgive himself for Prim someday.”

“Collateral damage, Madam President. No one could have known.”

“Yes.” Coin reminds herself of this. “Collateral damage. Just like me, I’m sure.”

Plutarch winces, ever so slightly. “That’s not the same.”

“True. To Katniss, my death was a necessity, not an accident.” Again the slight frustrated anger settles onto Coin’s delicate features. “I’d like to see her convicted, but the insanity plea will work. I know it will. Juries almost always opt to end a string of deaths, especially when the person on trial is a national symbol. Back when this nation was America, it’d be like executing Uncle Sam.”

Plutarch squints at her. “I don’t follow. Who?”

“Read through District 13’s historical documents archive sometime. You’ll have plenty of time for it.” Coin reaches back and grabs one of her pillows, fluffing it up to tuck it behind her head and sit forward a little. “Beyond that, are you familiar with the story of Orestes?”

“I think I knew someone on Snow’s staff by that name.”

“No, not that one.” Coin sighs just a little. Despite the popular names from antiquity, familiarity with the documents of the past is an all too rare phenomenon outside of District 13, and sometimes, she forgets that. “I’ll simplify the story for you. Agamemnon was a war chieftain who slaughtered, raped, and besieged an innocent city for ten years. To accomplish one of his goals, he murdered his own daughter.” She clears her throat politely. “He was a thoroughly unpleasant man.”

Plutarch nods. “Go on.”

A bit of healthy color returns to Coin’s pale face as she tells the story, actively engaged in one of her historical passions. “Clytemnestra was his wife. When Agamemnon returned home, bringing along trophies plundered from war and slave-girls he’d abducted, she was furious. Both for the death of her daughter, and for her husband’s general cruelty. So she killed him.”

By now, Plutarch is listening with more focus than before. “Yes?”

“Orestes was their son. To avenge the murder of his father, he killed his mother. The Furies were punishing spirits who took his case to court. The gods chose to acquit him, so the chain of deaths ended.” Coin realizes that Plutarch looks a bit baffled, and tries to draw a parallel, gesturing with her good arm. “Remove the family ties and change the genders, and you’ll see the comparison. Katniss also feels she needs to avenge the loss of her family, so she takes it out on the nearest target who’s trying to solve the problem -- namely, me -- rather than focusing on Snow’s true sins. And for it, she’ll likely be pardoned.”

“I’m not even going to pretend to understand how you got there, but I believe you.” Plutarch privately wonders if they need to check the dosage on the morphling IV drip. Not that it’s known to cause effects like this, but Coin is always focused on cold hard facts, not fanciful myths from an era that Plutarch’s barely ever known about. This is a slight departure for her. “I didn’t know you were interested in these stories.”

“It’s a narrative, Mr. Heavensbee. The Mockingjay is a narrative. These tales have power. I’d expect you to know.” Coin’s tone of voice is dry, but ever so slightly amused. She shifts her shoulders, settling back; the ache in her stomach is mostly gone ever since she’s had the chance to eat, but she’ll need more soon. “It’s the story they want to tell. The war broke Katniss, so she snapped, and now she shouldn’t be forced to suffer again, they’ll say. It’s a way to illustrate the power of these atrocities, and allow for an ending that doesn’t involve putting Panem’s favorite icon to death.” She rubs the bridge of her nose, fruitlessly trying to stave off a slight headache. “And if that’s what it takes to keep this nation from falling to pieces again, I can easily pretend to be dead, thank you very much. After all, I’ve kept an entire district secret for twenty years. I can do it again.”

And again Plutarch walks the border between reassuring supporter and sycophantic yes-man, falling back into old habits. “I’m not questioning your skills, Madam President.”

“You should be.” As always, Coin keeps him on his toes. She’s almost a more challenging employer than Snow; Snow required deceit, but Coin demands brutal honesty. She sees through every falsehood and doesn’t tolerate a single instance of needless flattery. Even here and now, she’s sharp-tongued and merciless, but there’s something about her that coats her verbal jabs in a sort of strange appeal that keeps her targets close by her side. “So how quickly do you predict the communication systems will extend beyond the Capitol?”

“Beetee’s working on it, so I’d give it a month.” Prior to now, each District had its own private system of communications, but aside from official Capitol transmissions, there was no way for them to correspond with one another -- heavy sanctions, blocks, and interference disabled any attempt. Yet Beetee, during his time as District 13’s official technology supervisor, was able to circumvent these firewalls and dispatch bits of information and small programs to all District residents, catching the attention of old and young alike in efforts that extended far beyond the main propo campaign. Now, it won’t be any trouble for him to finish the job. “Everyone will view it as a way to unite Panem. I wouldn’t concern yourself with it.”

“You have a point. It’s good for morale.” And Coin finds that she’s _still_ thinking in the mindset of Panem’s next president, planning how one solitary move will have lasting repercussions like a single piece on a chessboard. She bites back the instinct to comment on this. “Does Paylor know I’m alive?”

“Yes. She distrusts you, but she distrusts _everyone,_ at least to some extent. It’s partly why she was chosen by the public. She’ll be aware of any corruption, and she’ll take immediate steps to root it out.” Plutarch thinks back to their last meeting. “According to everyone I’ve talked to about it, she’s putting plans in place to abolish the Games and establish new traditions. Memorials will be built for the fallen Tributes. Past arenas will be destroyed. So on and so forth.”

“Everything I’d planned. Very good.”

Plutarch detects a note of bitterness, and tries to soothe it, feeling Coin’s light gray eyes boring holes into him. Her breathing is slow and shallow, and she’s starting to need the steady flow of oxygen, but this by no means decreases the simple intensity of her tone of voice. But Plutarch responds with better news than expected. “If it’s any consolation, she’s open to having you as an advisor behind the scenes. You’re better at logistics than anyone I’ve ever met, and she agrees with me on that.”

“It comes from years of practice. Leading a rebellion is one thing. Leading a colony of survivors is another.” This is the closest Coin will ever come to gloating in her own successes. “I don’t doubt her skill, just her experience. Tell her she’ll have my aid whenever she needs, starting immediately.”

 _“Immediately?_ Madam President, you need to take time and recover. Enjoy your time off. Spend time with Miss Mason. Do whatever you’d like to do until you’re well again.”

Coin suppresses a smile at Plutarch’s underhanded acknowledgement of Johanna’s role in her life. “What I like to do is work. Just find me a tablet and a notepad, and I’ll be perfectly fine. Sitting idle in a hospital bed, to the contrary, is pure misery.”

“I understand.” Plutarch offers his own tablet, but Coin declines, holding up a hand. “Mine will need as much encryption as it can get. Go out later and buy one. You do know where the remaining technology shops are in the Capitol, right?”

“Madam President, I _lived_ here.”

“Yes, before it was bombed.”

“Good point. I’m sure I can find one that’s still standing.”

“You’d better.” But again Coin softens the sharp point of her remark with a luminous smile, settling back against the pillows. “Thank you, Plutarch. I owe you so much. Let’s discuss the rest of this later.”

“You don’t owe me as much as you think.” Plutarch finally eases himself into a seat again, recognizing that Coin needs time to rest and the conversation has concluded for now. “As always, it’s my pleasure.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, a little perspective is what's needed. In the wake of the failed assassination attempt, Johanna's working on finding it. Unfortunately, when the plan as she knows it has completely fallen apart, it's hard to see a way out.
> 
> At least she has good allies.
> 
> \- - -
> 
> “They would’ve always been trying if things went like how you planned. And--” The girl knows she’s venturing into sensitive territory, and speaks more softly, cloaking her words in care. “I’m not sure the Capitol would be a good place for you to live, anyway. Bad memories, right?”
> 
> “When the District 13 doctors got me, they made it so my memories of the Capitol wouldn’t be so bad. Don’t know how, but it worked, except for the phobia stuff they can’t get rid of. But yeah. Bad memories.” Johanna consciously straightens her back, correcting her posture. “Just so you know, I was prepared to set all that shit aside for her. Soon as she was in the Capitol for good, that’s where I’d be. Only if she wanted.”

Hours later, Johanna awakens in a panic, jolted back to reality by a light tap on her shoulder and a soft voice that says words she can’t decipher. For a minute, everything’s an unclear miserable haze, her fight or flight response running on full alert in case she notices any further cause for alarm. The bright fluorescent lights above her are blinding, and her nostrils are assaulted by the sterile tang of disinfectant, white walls surrounding her at every angle. She moves one arm, then the other. She’s not restrained, and she’s not wet, so she’s safe. The hair falling into her eyes is a comfort. It means she’s not been recaptured, either. They’d kept her head shaved back in the Capitol’s prison, stripping her of another distinct part of her identity.

Within seconds, she realizes nobody has the authority to capture her in the first place. She’s a VIP now. The day’s and week’s memories come flooding back in an unpleasant barrage, flashing through her brain like fragments of a shredded scrapbook. It takes her a minute before she can bear it all enough to sit up, the caffeine still flooding through her body and making her pulse race unbearably. She rubs her eyes, swings her legs over the side of the hospital bed, and stands unsteadily, combat boots making contact with the floor. A clock above the door informs her of the time, and she winces, hands clenching into fists. “Fuck. I overslept.”

“No, you didn’t.” A quiet little voice pipes up from the corner, and as Johanna advances towards the visitor with shaky steps, the disinfectant scent fades away, replaced by the aroma of freshly picked flowers straight from somebody’s garden. Marigold, small and unassuming with a woven bag slung over her shoulder, stands to greet her. She’s charming, but hardly intimidating: she’s shorter than Johanna or even Coin, and while she’s upgraded her outfit with a few blossoms stuck into her braids, she’s still wearing the simplest style of dress she can find, a mouse-brown number with neatly sewn puffed sleeves. Several shopping bags surround her, all retrieved from the hospital gift shop, and she bends down to grab one, then offers it to Johanna with a shy smile. “They said you could sleep as long as you wanted. I finished the project you asked for while I was waiting for you.”

“Oh. Hey, thanks.” Johanna takes a minute to recall whatever it was she’d requested, then opens the bag once she’s remembered, checking inside. As expected, the workmanship is perfect, the stitches aligned properly and the fabric impeccably chosen. Even when working with scraps, Marigold is an expert. “Yeah, this’ll be great. You want me to pay you now or later?”

“Later should be just fine. Besides, I don’t mind. I’m not here for the money.” Marigold, youthful and fresh-faced, has the same kind of impassioned zeal Johanna saw on the faces of the volunteer Careers during her first Games, but with none of the savage bloodthirst. Sometime else, when she feels more like wallowing in the guilt from her own misdeeds, Johanna’ll take the time to think about those twenty-three dead Tributes and what they could have become. Not now. And that kind of sensationalized murder will never happen again. There’s some comfort in that.

Johanna looks inside the bag once more, then sets it on the floor, glancing at Marigold since the girl’s still speaking. She’s obviously tuned out and missed out some of what she said, but clears her throat to cover for it, and Marigold doesn’t even notice. “Hey. Mari. Where’d you get the flowers?”

Marigold is now explaining her fondness for various Propos she’s seen, but cuts off mid-sentence, realizing Johanna has changed the topic. “Oh! The flowers. There’s this little courtyard a few floors up in the hospital. I went exploring and found it. I think it’s near the maternity ward.” She pulls out a neatly folded piece of paper from her pocket, where she’s scribbled a rudimentary diagram of the building. “Want my map?”

“Nah, kiddo, you keep it.” Johanna pats her on the shoulder, but steals a glimpse at the map anyway. “Won’t do me much good. I’m not going anywhere beyond this hallway. What kind of flowers did you get?”

“There were some tulips, but I didn’t have the heart to take any, so I left them. They had lavender, though.” And Mari reaches into another bag, offering a handful of the aromatic sprigs bound up with twine around the stems. She places it into Johanna’s open palm, wearing an optimistic grin. “I had my sewing scissors, so I snipped a few bundles. Do you like lavender?”

“I don’t like flowers.” Johanna isn’t intending to sound tough; it’s genuinely true. She’s slightly allergic to pollen. But lavender is usually fine, so she lifts it to her nose and inhales, appreciating the pleasant departure from hospital antiseptics. “Alma’s going to like this, though. She used to spend a lot of time in 13’s underground gardens.” And she catches herself a moment too late. “Slap me if I start getting nostalgic again. I’m being stupid.”

“I’m not going to slap you. I want to hear.” Marigold boosts herself up onto the side of the bed, patting the mattress to invite Johanna to sit beside her. “My district was beautiful before the bombings started.” District Eight, land of the textiles. “We had this huge bridge, and there was an abandoned clock tower by my house where the rebels used to meet. We were almost all really poor, but it was beautiful. It looked like the kind of neighborhood you’d see in one of those old paintings. What’s the rest of District 13 like? I only got there a couple weeks ago, and I wasn’t allowed into the lower floors. You’ve been there for months, right?”

“Yeah, I have.” Simultaneously an eternity and a flash, considering different aspects of her stay there. “Well, nobody’s gonna want to paint _that_ district, unless they like the color gray.” Would it’ve killed them to build the place with a little color? Probably, actually. Paint fumes in a confined space like that could’ve turned toxic. So, Johanna grudgingly understood. “Coin’s the prettiest thing about that district. But it’s still nice, I guess. It’s quiet and it’s safe, and the cafeteria’s good, so I can’t complain.” She’d adapted quickly and learned to like it, unlike Effie, who had never shut up about the things she saw wrong with it. However, Effie had also never stopped trying to improve the place in her own way, either. “The lower levels are just the agriculture, water processing, command center, stuff like that. Nothing too special. The cultivated meadow’s down there too. They keep hummingbirds in there, ‘cause those were one of the species that almost died when the Capitol started bombing.”

“Oooh. I bet they’re beautiful.” Mari’s eyes light up; she’s seen a hummingbird once in her home district, but never gotten close enough for another look. It’s true. They’re an endangered species now. Mari suddenly feels, quite passionately, that there are far too many endangered species, both among animals and people. However, mentioning this to Johanna just gets a snort of laughter. Mari looks offended. “What? It’s true!”

“Tell it to our huntress-in-chief.” Johanna’s angry, and is tired of pretending she’s not, but she still keeps it mostly bottled up, frustration seething out only when she’s actively addressing the topic. Otherwise, for the sake of not bothering everyone near her, she puts a lid on it. “You’re too young to have had any kind of real love affair, haven’t you?”

“I’m thirteen. So yeah.”  

“Good. Stay out of that shit as long as you can. It’s basically just a fast-track to _deep_ goddamn trouble.” Johanna puts a hand over her mouth after the fact, realizing that she probably shouldn’t swear in front of a kid who’s half her age. “Also, don’t date anyone that’s liable to get killed. You don’t want to know how that feels.”

“But she’s still here.” Mari lays a consoling hand on Johanna’s arm, trying to provide some small measure of wisdom from her young years. She hasn’t got much to offer, and she knows it, but she can at least listen and try to help. “It’s going to be okay. I was thinking about this. Do either of you really want the Capitol prying into your lives all the time?”

“Sounds like hell. So no.” Johanna rests her chin in her hands. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t thought about that issue before. “Not that they would’ve. We have ways around that.”

“They would’ve always been trying if things went like how you planned. And--” The girl knows she’s venturing into sensitive territory, and speaks more softly, cloaking her words in care. “I’m not sure the Capitol would be a good place for you to live, anyway. Bad memories, right?”

“When the District 13 doctors got me, they made it so my memories of the Capitol wouldn’t be so bad. Don’t know how, but it worked, except for the phobia stuff they can’t get rid of. But yeah. Bad memories.” Johanna consciously straightens her back, correcting her posture. “Just so you know, I was prepared to set all that shit aside for her. Soon as she was in the Capitol for good, that’s where I’d be. Only if she wanted.”

“She _did_ want that. I’m sure she did.” Marigold swings her legs, heels of her small boots colliding with the edge of the hospital bed in a steady clicking rhythm that threatens to drive Johanna crazy. Sensing her companion’s discomfort, she stops, sitting still. “And now she wants you with her back at 13.”

“Yeah, she told me. I’m not sure I can stand living underground much longer, but it’s either that or camping in the woods. At least until they start rebuilding.” In a way, Johanna rebels against the thought of living in total secrecy, but at the same time, she despises anybody who attempts to meddle in her life. Relative privacy and unfettered independence are hard demands to balance. “It’s just tough to get used to. I’m being a bitch about it, I know. Hell, Alma’s adjusting faster than I am, and she wanted this as bad as anybody.” Johanna chews on her lip, twisting the hem of her baggy shirt in her hands. “Her name’s gonna go down in the history books as a threat. People are going to be _glad_ she died. That’s what gets me.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.”

“The entire _country_ is siding with Katniss! Yes, it does!”

“No, they’re not. I watched some of the broadcasts. They’re split. Just because they’re probably going to pardon Katniss, it doesn’t mean they all think she’s right.” Mari is at once optimistic and unusually insightful. She’s not a fan of Flickerman, but there _is_ something about his program that’s compelling enough for her to watch every evening. “President Coin has to stay undercover, right?”

“Yeah.” Johanna sighs. “Fifty years living underground, a week of freedom, and now she’s got to go right back to the District 13 nuke colony. Sucks for her, and I hate it.”

“She’s _fifty?!_ Oh my gosh.”

“Shut up. She doesn’t look it.”

“I know! I thought she was forty.” Mari clears her throat, wringing her hands. This is a little too awkward for her liking. “Anyway. She’s undercover, but you don’t have to be. Right?”

Johanna eyes her suspiciously from the side. “In theory, yeah. But I’m not going back out there to throw myself to the wolves.”

“But just _listen_ to me.” Mari’s almost pleading. She wants to fix it so badly. She’s got parents and siblings back in District 8, one of the slightly wealthier families in the neighborhood, but the same kind of altruistic instinct that’s led her to offer free clothing repairs to all her poorer friends every winter is also making her want to help Johanna out of this terrible thrall of grief. Perhaps misery is a better word, but misery is an overall state of mind that Johanna doesn’t have. It’s definitely _grief,_ driven by the loss of the future both she and the President had clearly envisioned for themselves. “You can get out there and start setting the record straight about her. Explain what happened and what she was planning, and how good she was. Just because she did some things in the war doesn’t mean she was awful. Everybody will understand. Mr. Heavensbee will back you up. He’ll probably have a memorial made for her, right?”

“If Paylor will allow it, yeah, which she’d better.” Johanna listens to Marigold’s plan with slumped shoulders, face in her hands again. “I know what they’re saying about Coin. Seduced by the power. Made poor decisions. As bad as Snow. Which she isn’t, she _isn’t_ , she never was and never, _ever_ fucking _would’ve_ been. _God.”_ After the little outburst, she collects herself with some difficulty, having given up on her no-swearing pledge. The gravity of those accusations cuts Johanna to her core, especially considering the situation she faced in the Capitol versus the relative bliss she’d discovered with the District and its lovely leader. “I sound like I’m in denial, but trust me, I know this lady better than anybody. She wanted to fix things and force Snow to back down. That’s why the bombings happened. Sure, she didn’t trust Katniss to get the job done, I guess, but it _worked,_ and that’s what mattered-- You’ve heard all this. What the fuck am I even saying?”

Mari pats Johanna’s arm again, giving her wrist a small, polite squeeze. “It’s okay. This is all right. See? You know about all this, so you can tell people what really happened. Don’t let them believe what Katniss’s lawyers are probably going to say.”

The righteous fury is still strong in Johanna. “I swear to god, if they get up on that stand and start talking shit about Alma, I’m going to break into that courtroom and stop the trial.”

Mari fidgets with one of her braids. “Maybe don’t do that.”

“I’m kidding. I won’t be allowed near there. Restraining order, remember? I would, though, if I could.” Johanna is half joking. She can’t bear to sit still anymore, though, so she stands up and begins to pace back and forth, working off the nervous energy from her espresso drinks. “Somebody confiscated my axe when I got here. Feels weird to be walking around without it. Hey, are you any good at breaking into places?”

“I can pick a lock with a needle, but that’s all.”

“Yeah, they’re going to have a lot more security on the weapons than a goddamn padlock. Skip it.”

“Is there anything else I can do?”

“Maybe. Hang on.” On a whim, Johann strides towards the exit and pokes her head out the door, only to nearly collide with Caldwell, who’s been waiting patiently outside, a pen in one hand and a book of crossword puzzles on the other. Out of uniform, he looks far different from the typical Peacekeeper; wholesome, unintimidating, and normal, rather than grizzled, worn, and sadistic. That’s probably why he was chosen to join this group. He naturally attracts trust.

But not Johanna’s. She jabs a finger into his ribs like the point of a knife, making him flinch. “How long’ve you been waiting out here? Get in here.”

Lower-ranking Peacekeepers are used to being ordered around by cruel officers, but Caldwell still looks unhappy, and Johanna feels a pang of regret. “Sorry, Caldwell. Stop eavesdropping, though. That’s rude as fuck.”

“I apologize.” He acts mostly unfazed; he’s spent the past few years being shuffled around among various higher-ranking Peacekeeper supervisors, all of whom were unanimously discontented with his lack of killer instinct. There’s a reason Caldwell defected to the rebel cause so quickly. The best way to deal with his furious former bosses had always been to stay calm and deal with their anger in stride, and though Johanna is a far milder example of that spitfire personality type, he still deploys the same tactics on her. “I thought it’d be best to wait until you were finished.”

“That’s fine. Thanks for not interrupting, anyway.” Johanna feels her anger dissipating quickly. “Hey, I didn’t catch the rest of your name. If you already told me, I forgot. It’s been a long-ass week.”

“Suetonius Caldwell.” He inclines his head a little, knowing full well how strange the name might sound to the citizens of outlying districts. The Capitol isn’t the only source for peculiar names drawn from ancient times -- District Two, from which Caldwell hails, has similar customs. Sometimes the names are fascinating. Sometimes they’re just a burden. “Just call me Tony. It’s easier.”

“Better than Sue, I guess. Tony’s not bad.” Johanna laughs a little too harshly, the stress wearing through any remaining fragments of a good mood. “I heard about the guy you’re named after. He wrote some book about the Caesars. All twelve of ‘em. Why there were twelve, I don’t have a clue. Matter of fact, that’s all I remember. Coin tried to teach me, didn’t get very far. Maybe we’ll try again when we get back.” She’s rambling out loud now. Johanna has never been good at small talk. “So what were you waiting here for?”

Caldwell gestures to Marigold, who’s got her needle, thread, and a scrap of cloth in her lap, embroidering a tiny pattern. “Heavensbee wants the two of us to go out in the Capitol for an errand. We’re the least recognizable, so we won’t be attacked, abducted, or stopped.” He doesn’t really feel any familial attachment to the little girl, but it’s nice to have a companion. _Anyone_ would be good company for a man who’s spent the past week staked out on his own with puzzle books and a folding chair at the end of the corridor; more pleasant than Peacekeeper guard duty, but mind-numbingly boring, especially in such life-or-death circumstances where he should be on the front lines. But he knows his duty is here. “Let’s go.”

“Alright!” Mari’s grateful for the opportunity to get out of the hospital, too. She hops to her feet and tucks the scrap back into the satchel at her side, trotting towards the door and chasing after Caldwell as he leaves. Johanna turns back to gathers up the bags Mari’s left behind, but realizes they’re all intended for her, and by the time she’s reached the door again, the pair has left the corridor, obviously in a rush.

Johanna nods, tucks the bags in the crook of her arm, and leaves. Back to the room across the hall.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, things are looking up for both of them. Coin might be spending the first month of Panem's freedom in a Capitol hospital, but any good leader can provide guidance from afar, especially with someone like Johanna by her side.
> 
> Last chapter of this little fluff-and-angst confection. More to follow soon in a sequel, probably. 
> 
> \- - -
> 
> “If it’s any consolation, I’m sure it annoyed Snow.” Now Coin can’t help but smile. “The idea of one of his archenemies and his former captives enjoying each other’s company probably wasn’t too well-received.”
> 
> “I hope the old bastard got an ulcer from it.”
> 
> “That’s the spirit.” And again Coin’s ideas drift back to the concept of using Flickerman as a proxy, unleashing Johanna on him to spread the truth -- or at least an improved version of something close to the truth. “You’ll probably have to acknowledge our bond. I hope you don’t mind that.”

Plutarch is gone again. Johanna notices this right away, and feels a little more at ease. It’ll be less awkward to share sweet moments with Coin if there’s nobody watching. The instant the door closes behind her, Coin’s already trying to sit up in the bed, slender hands grasping the sheets to steady herself. “Welcome back, my dear.”

“Thanks, sweetie.” The pet names were a joke at first, but now that they’ve both gotten into the habit of using them, they do feel oddly familiar and comfortable. Johanna plops down into what she thinks is the same chair as before, only to find that Plutarch has conscientiously replaced it with a better, more ergonomic version. She lets out a sigh of relief and leans back, tipping it onto two legs and keeping her balance with one foot hooked on the bar of the hospital bed. “How’d the talk with Plutarch go?”

“Very well. We’re making plans.” Coin reaches out and gestures for her to come closer, cuing Johanna to settle forward again with all four chair legs firmly planted on the floor, taking her hand and listening attentively as she explains. “It’s everything you expected. You, I, and Plutarch will return to District 13, as well as any others who want to accompany us. I expect Caldwell and your young friend will join us. However, it’ll be at least three weeks until I’m well enough to travel, according to the doctors. And Plutarch has a plan for you in the meantime.”

“Oh yeah?” Johanna gets comfortable, hunched over and leaning over the bed, Coin’s delicate hand still clasped in hers. Her body temperature is low, and her hands are cold, so Johanna takes it upon herself to help in any way she can. “Hit me with it. What’s he got in mind?”

“He wants you to schedule an interview with Flickerman.” Coin hesitates a little, delivering this news. Johanna won’t be thrilled. “It might redeem your reputation, and mine.”

_“Oh my god, no.”_ Johanna almost chokes. The idea is alarming, to say the very least. Horrific, at the worst. “Okay, what’s the deal, did Plutarch get to Marigold already or something? She pitched the same idea to me fifteen minutes ago. Phrased a little more loosely, but the concept’s the same. Put me in front of the media and expect me to fix things. Like that’s going to help.”

“It might. He knows more about Capitol politics than I could possibly hope to.” Coin shrugs lightly, acknowledging Plutarch’s expertise in the corrupted system. “Reluctantly, yes; he claims to hate it. But the knowledge is still there, and still useful. It may do us both good. If Flickerman feels he’s put the issue to rest, he and the rest of Panem can mourn me and move on, and give you the space and privacy that you deserve as a grieving…” Coin ponders her next word. “...Widow is much too strong a term. Unlike Plutarch, I don’t believe they’ll be tricked twice with news of a shotgun wedding to pull their heartstrings. Besides, we haven’t been together long enough to make it plausible. Less than a year isn’t enough. They would judge.”

“All this, and _that’s_ what you’d think they’d judge?!” Johanna is incredulous. Eyebrows raised, she watches Coin closely, admiring her as always but also deeply skeptical of this plan. “Skip the whole married-couple idea. That just smells like Plutarch’s theatrics, and that’s some bullshit I don’t want to drag into our schemes. Do you guys in District 13 even allow that for chicks?”

“Not usually. I never had any success in changing the policy.”

“See, that’s what I thought. Not gonna fly. Sure, they’d never know one way or another, but they’re not idiots. Flickerman’d be all over it, and not in the way we want.” Johanna chews on her lip, pondering thoughtfully. “Might be better just to paint me as a really, _really_ devoted follower of yours, don’tcha think?”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to work. When Beetee sent out the propo with us, the entire Capitol was clamoring about the subtext for days. They absolutely ate it up.” Coin lets a small smirk pass across her face, brightening her expression. She turns to look Johanna in the eyes again, grip on her hand tightening imperceptibly. “In retrospect, that was a good decision. It humanized both of us in their eyes, and let us make progress to gain the sympathy of innocent Capitolites.”

“Really? I was kind of expecting that it’d piss ‘em off.”

“If it’s any consolation, I’m sure it annoyed Snow.” Now Coin can’t help but smile. “The idea of one of his archenemies and his former captives enjoying each other’s company probably wasn’t too well-received.”

“I hope the old bastard got an ulcer from it.”

“That’s the spirit.” And again Coin’s ideas drift back to the concept of using Flickerman as a proxy, unleashing Johanna on him to spread the truth -- or at least an improved version of something close to the truth. “You’ll probably have to acknowledge our bond. I hope you don’t mind that.”

“Considering that I was planning to go on national TV and brag about you being mine as soon as you got into office? Nope, I don’t mind one bit.” Johanna flashes a wicked grin. “Sure, I’ll have to do it in the past tense now, but what’s a little lying for a good cause? I can do it. Man, I can just _picture_ that pompous dickhead. He’s gonna try all his usual stunts. I don’t think he’ll even know how to handle me when I’m not in a tribute interview.” She abruptly shifts into an impression of Flickerman’s voice, his exaggerated intonation and hint of a Capitol accent. “Miss Mason, let’s start out with a simple question. What would you say District 13’s most important exports are in this day and age?” And then she’s back to her normal voice, scathing tone and all. “That’s an easy one. Democracy, nukes, and lesbians.”

Coin can’t help but laugh at this. She tugs her hand free from Johanna’s grip and covers her mouth, a light airy giggle that Johanna just finds absolutely _charming._ Promptly the younger woman takes hold of Coin’s wrist and reclaims her hand, getting a good look at the grin that’s lighting up the president’s beautiful angular face. With her other hand she brushes a strand of Coin’s long hair out of her face. “Hey. I wanna see you happy again. You’re irresistible.”

“Mm, thank you.” With slight difficulty, the president collects herself, looking better and more cheerful than before. There’s a light tint of color in her cheeks now. “Please, Johanna, say that in the interview. Do it for me. I want to watch his reaction.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. You can count on me.”

“And we won’t have any trouble scheduling it. Plutarch will negotiate something. Flickerman’s got an open space in his schedule now since Cressida rejected him. He’ll leap at the opportunity to interrogate ‘District Seven’s most controversial Champion’.” Johanna can just feel the quotes around the last few words as Coin speaks, her voice dripping with contempt for Flickerman’s exaggerated narration of current events. “Just don’t give him any reason to believe that I’m anything other than deceased. Remember the need for my safety.”

“Understood.” And Johanna encloses her lover in a hug as well as she can, slipping an arm around Coin’s shoulders and awkwardly leaning over the hospital bed. Coin’s not satisfied with the effort, though. Hugs are impossible this way, but kisses aren’t. So the instant Johanna pulls away, she finds herself dragged back by the collar of her tank top, participating in a forceful but sweet kiss before she even quite knows what’s happened. Their lips meet, a soft and wonderful exchange of intimacy that’s over in a moment’s notice.

Coin lets go, folding her hands politely in her lap. “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what’s in the bags you brought in?”

Johanna’s still mentally savoring the kiss, sitting there in a slightly delighted haze. “Oh. Right.”  She leans over to pick up the bags anyway, pulling out a sprig of lavender that she lays on the bedside table. “Most of it’s just food for me, but this is for you. Marigold got some of this so the place’ll smell nicer.” As she expects, Coin reaches out for the small bundle of flowers and inhales the scent, eyes closing for a moment. “Figured you’d like it. I’ll find a hairpin for you if you want to put one of the flowers in your hair.” On a whim, Johann had persuaded Coin to do that once, at Annie and Finnick’s wedding. She’d looked even _more_ beautiful than before, a standard that was barely possible to surpass.

But Coin declines, setting the lavender sprigs back on the nightstand. “Unfortunately, I’m not quite well enough to accessorize yet. Keep going.”

“You sure?” The next, and most important, item that Johanna has to offer is the gift that she’s requested specifically from Marigold, with her talent for stitching wizardry. As she speaks, a smug little smile crosses her face that she can’t quite get rid of. Rather than give the item to Coin outright, she presses it into the palm of her hand, watching her reaction as she unfolds the small strip of gray fabric. Just long enough to be tied around her upper arm and sleeve, it’s an armband that contains a delicately rendered copy of the D13 logo in silver and black thread, the letter and numbers and three lines below. It’s nearly identical to the version sewn onto her original outfit. The jumpsuit may have been lost, but the spirit of the uniform lives on.

And Coin smiles, and looks truly confident again at last. “I see.”

“Gimme.” Johanna takes it back from Coin and winds it around her sleeve, knotting the strip of fine cloth around her arm in roughly the same place as the usual insignia would’ve been. Just wearing the symbolism of her district is obviously important to Coin. She straightens her back, sits up, looks more like her authoritative self. In a situation like this, it’s the little things that matter most. All her work is not undone. Johanna watches her, wearing a wry grin with a hint of pride. She’s done the impossible: made someone happy whom she loves. _Especially_ someone who’s as difficult to satisfy as Coin. “Sorry I couldn’t get you a whole outfit, but I don’t think they’d let me get that hospital gown off of you, even if I wanted to.”

“Johanna, my entire body is bandaged. You wouldn’t gain much by trying.” Coin gently chastises her, but beckons with one hand for Johanna to come closer again, silvery hair matching the metallic tint of the thread. “But thank you. I’m very grateful. I needed this.”

“Thought you might.” Johanna takes pride in this minor little triumph. Legs crossed, she sits back again, moving the chair so she’s side by side with Coin rather than facing her directly. This earns her a light tap on the shoulder and a sweetly phrased complaint of “I wasn’t done looking at you.”

“Okay, fine, fair enough. I’m not much to look at right now, though.” Amid Coin’s protests against that statement, Johanna gets up again, dragging the chair back into its original position. “Wish I could just join you in that damn bed, but I’m pretty sure I’d get kicked out by the doctors.”

“Undoubtedly. But perhaps sometime soon, we can go back to our old ways.” Right now Coin is not at all concerned with matters of statehood, politics, or national security. There were those on the District 13 council who’d argued that Johanna was a negative influence, a distraction to the president that she did not need. At this very moment, they wouldn’t have been wrong. Her eyes are glittering and bright, but kind, her gray gaze locked with Johanna’s. “There’s nothing I look forward to more.”

“Me too, Alma, babe.” It’s almost impossible to consider that just a week ago, Johanna’s hope for a happy future had dwindled to nothing. Now, despite the logistical impossibilities of her situation -- an interview with the Capitol’s most demanding television personality, and the prospect of an entire life lived in secrecy, not to mention a _feigned death_ in the mix -- she’s well and truly happy. She grins, and despite her sarcastic and pessimistic ways, Johanna Mason positively shines with hope.

“Me too.”


End file.
